


Maroon Paint

by philomenaguts



Series: Slasher Drabbles [1]
Category: Halloween - Fandom
Genre: Choking, Dom Michael, F/M, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Gen, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, No Smut, Painting, Protective Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27223336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philomenaguts/pseuds/philomenaguts
Summary: You manage to collect quite a few handprints of paint while repainting your living room, all laid strategically by Michael as he accompanied you silently.
Relationships: Michael Myers & Reader, Michael Myers/ Female Reader, Michael Myers/ Gender Neutral Reader, Michael Myers/Male reader, Michael Myers/Reader, Michael Myers/You
Series: Slasher Drabbles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1987519
Comments: 2
Kudos: 49





	Maroon Paint

**Author's Note:**

> Short drabble about where you fix the abandoned Myers household. Established "friendship" with Michael is already present considering I didn't want to deal with explaining how he'd meet you (and not just murder you). OOC Michael because I refuse to watch the Halloween movies until I finish the Friday the 13th franchise. I might post more if I get tortured by more Michael fantasies.

My arms ached. I massaged my bicep slowly, a strained hiss escaping between my teeth. I wipe the sweat from my brow, arm gleaming with a thin sheen. Looking up at the freshly painted beige wall in front of me, I smile at my hard work, knowing the 3 layers of paint I applied finally left me satisfied with the appearance. I glanced over to the arch of the kitchen entrance, seeing a thin strip of navy coveralls as Michael stood hunched over the kitchen counter.  
Grinning, I layer a thin coat of paint on my hand, yellow dribbling down my digits and rushing down the expanse of my arm. I clasp my hands together, feeling the paint ooze from one valley of my hand to the other. I dribble off the excess onto the plastic sheet beneath my feet, watching Michael slowly mix a bucket of paint on the kitchen counter. I creeped over, knowing full well he could hear the old floorboards creak underneath the matted carpet as I walked. Stalking behind him, I pause for a moment, admiring the slow and subtle rise and fall of his shoulders, hearing the small puffs of his breath blowing out of the holes in his mask. I peek at his hands, still stirring the bucket of paint, a warm beige swirling with white, and reach out to touch his bicep.  
It was firm as my fingers squeezed softly into his muscles, which were much firmer than I initially suspected. His form in his navy coveralls looked to be on the more lithe side as it hung from him. I now realized that it was quite fitting, lean but pronounced muscles filling the bulky sleeves of his garment. I felt the muscles flex under my fingers as he let go of the wooden dowel he was using to stir with.  
A faint heat rose to my cheeks but it was soon replaced by alarm as he turned slowly, clearly unappreciative of being touched. I sheepishly duck away and hide my hand, looking away from the very obvious yellow handprint that graced his dark blue coveralls.  
I step away and smile. I could feel his darkened eyes leering at me from behind his mask.  
He swings around, imposing at full height and steps forward, hands reaching out to wrap around my throat, squeezing lightly at my trachea but fingers digging into the sides, blocking the blood from my head. I step onto my tiptoes as he pulls my face closer, confusion swimming around in my eyes as his icy ones bore into mine. My heartbeat ramps up and I hear the blood rushing in my ears.  
His hands are cold and clammy, a stark contrast to the fervent heat creeping up my neck and dusting my cheeks. I could smell the latex of his mask and the musk of his skin and the fabric of his coveralls as his head tilted to catch my fluttering gaze. I looked anywhere but his face, just knowing there was a sadistic and cruel smirk twisted onto his lips. Being so close and confused and afraid only made my heart beat faster, knowing he was enjoying the overt power he had over me.  
My hands reached from his coveralls to the long fingers obstructing my airflow, fingers forcing themselves between my throat and his large hands.  
“Mich...ael…” his name bubbled from my lips as I started to feel lightheaded. He let me go finally, seeing the desperation in my eyes and the way my hands thrashed to unlock his iron grip on my neck. I pant and shoot him a look but he's already in the next room. Clasping a hand to my throat, I massage the ghostly feeling of pressure there.  
I quirk a brow when I notice a texture running between my skin.  
Nearing the mirror, I crane my neck. Two yellow handprints grace the flesh of my neck, the divot of my jugular notch where Michaels thumb lay, middle and pointer finger prints creating larger prints of yellow on the sides of my neck. In the reflection, I see Michael come into view, posture more relaxed in mock satisfaction. I raise a brow at him, unimpressed but amused.  
“Haha Michael. Very funny.” I cock my head to the other side and smear the paint before standing up straight.  
“Y’know, I think I look nice like this.” I muse, unzipping the coveralls to the middle of my chest, watching the paint pool at points and begin to dribble down my skin. I fan myself, a little from the heat of the sun bearing down into the closed house, but more so from the incessant blush that spread across my face like some unbecoming rash. I brush past him, feeling his gaze hot on my neck, seeing his hand prints there, almost beckoning him to come and do it again. I shiver at the thought.  
The rest of the afternoon, light brushes of paint and hands clasped around my body were a common occurrence. I favored Michaels chest and arms. Even then I rarely got to surprise him with paint blotches, his cat-like reflexes catching my hands mid-raise, targeting them back at my own stomach or chest or whatever surface that he could pull me to. The most handprints I collected were on my neck. He, at multiple times, cornered me on a still wet wall, pinning me by my neck. He watched me struggled to breathe, amused. I only fed into his appetite by struggling. Not only did he force me onto a still-drying wall that I'd have to repaint, he must've noticed my crumbling demeanor every time his fingers found themselves around my throat.  
Every time he’d press harder, and I felt a panging beat in my head as my heart rate sped up. He experimentally did it, sometimes catching me off guard, hand on the nape of my neck as both of his hands pressed into my trachea, not too harshly but enough to remind me of his menacing presence. Other times I expectantly stood and felt him wrap his hands around my neck, the paint on my neck now an amalgamation of various colors as each time he’d surprise me, a different color graced his calloused hands. Every time I wipe away at the paint, a new, thin handprint of blue or maroon or yellow stained my jugular.  
I’d be a liar if I said I hadn’t enjoyed it. Every time I watched him stride over with threatening zeal, head tilted, icy eyes watching from behind his mask as he watched me, as if he expected me to strike or run. Excitement bubbled in my stomach, like some masochistic prey praying for death from a lurking predator. My clenched fist betrayed my excitement, and he must’ve noticed by now.  
As much as I’d enjoy to run and see Michael’s calmly hostile façade drop, I stood. Mostly because I was too preoccupied by the drying paint on the wall to entertain his sadistic nature.  
I dip three fingers into the freshy opened bucket of maroon, swirling it around and lifting it to my neck. I smear a line across my skin, a red line from ear to ear.  
“Michael.”  
He turns to face me and I shut my eyes, tilting my head and sticking my tongue out in mock death.  
I hear shuffling and crack an eye open, seeing him approaching. Perhaps it wasn't the smartest idea to taunt a murderer with a sliced neck. I step back as I see him nearing, his demeanor looks angrier, stride more sure, hands clenched, a rag in his right fist.   
I raise my hands in defense and his hands grab at my wrist, pulling me closer to him violently. I shut my eyes, expecting something, anything brutal. Infamous Michael Myers would be able to figure out how to kill someone with a washcloth.  
I feel his hand familiarly snake around my neck, only to have his thumb dig into the underside of my chin, forcing my head to crane to the ceiling. He towers over me. I met his gaze, his eyes fixated on the maroon dripping down my neck. His hands rip open the top of the coveralls, chest slightly exposed. My face erupts in a heat but I don't dare move, hands clenching at my sides as I feel him wipe at the maroon on my neck. His touch is unfamiliar, gently swabbing away the paint and wiping the thicker globs on his own coveralls, which were already stained maroon in part. Though I knew those older, darker stains weren't paint. He pushes his thumb from side to side, tilting my head side to side, inspecting me for any other spare dribbles of maroon. Scanning me over once more, gaze unmistakably falling to my shallow-breathing chest, he meets my eyes again. I cower and shrink into myself as I see him shake his head slowly, wordlessly forbidding me from pulling something like that again. His eyes, narrowed, stare intently into mine. I swallow hard, feeling his hand lessen pressure, and nod quickly. He unceremoniously lets me go, striding back into the kitchen to continue mindlessly swirling around paint.  
I stumble and stand for a moment, dazed. I couldn't exactly put my hand on what just happened but I zipped up the coveralls to hide my exposed skin. I felt at my neck, feeling dry streaks of paint, hearing the familiar clinking of a wooden handle against a metal bucket.

**Author's Note:**

> sigh... lmao I'm definitely writing more for Michael later.


End file.
